The Day the Music Died
by Callisto Callispi
Summary: SPOILERS from this point on. Do you truly believe the Crimson King remained idle while locked out of the Dark Tower? Darker, more frustrating alternate ending. Gan speaks through me.


**Note**: The ending was interesting -- not completely satisfying, but interesting and to a certain point, clever. And in response, I've written a darker, more frustrating ending to annoy the hell out of Dark Tower readers. :) Not really. The idea actually just came to me.   
**Disclaimers**: All good things belong to Stephen King. 

_The wall on which the prophets wrote   
Is cracking at the seams.   
Upon the instruments of death   
The sunlight brightly gleams.   
When every man is torn apart   
With nightmares and with dreams,   
Will no one lay the laurel wreath   
As silence drowns the screams. _

"Epitaph" by King Crimson 

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**The Day the Music Died**   
_By Callisto Callispi_

The Tower spiraled up like a child's plaything in a world of giants. Or maybe it spiraled up like a giant's castle in the world of a child's imagination. 

Regardless, Roland Deschain of Gilead (the land that once was and the land that would be again with the restoration of the Beams -- if it's ka it'll come like the wind, say thankya) climbed the Dark Tower. 

It was too easy, Roland thought. The battle -- he was expecting a grand _epic_. And despite the fact that he almost died, he pondered the thought that he was only about to die because the song drew him to the Tower. The _song_ almost killed him. The song _wanted_ to kill him. And if he died, how would he fulfill his quest? 

. . . Hm. 

Perhaps he would have ran more quickly, perhaps he would have stepped in a more lively fashion (for he was, after all, in his beloved Tower) if that little tug on his arms hadn't persisted. 

And when Roland glanced over his shoulder, he saw the misty, ghost-like face of a plumper, more innocent Mordred, pleading his White Father to come and teach him to hold a revolver. Then his face would swirl and melt and _change_ into a more pleasant (and an exponentially disturbing) image of a stony-faced John "Jake" Chambers. 

_"Father,"_ he would whisper. _"Turn back . . ."_

Then Roland would pause. And the song of the roses would grow stronger and stronger. It would overpower the voice of Roland Deschain's "son(s)." 

And Roland would continue to climb. 

He should have been bursting with joy. He should have been drugged with happiness, for he at last was doing what he dreamed of doing these past _centuries_. Climbing the Tower. 

Oh yes, he felt drugged. But it wasn't the drug that made him facetiously happy, like Eddie's beloved heroin. It was a viler, more drowsy drug. It made him incapable of thought and even more incapable of imagination (for which Roland was famous regarding the lack thereof). 

It was the Song of the Roses. 

Only, with each heavy step, the chiming joy and innocence faded from the voices. With each step that Roland took, the layers of lies and rose-paper rotted and finally fell. 

And as the tower walls became darker and damper (like that of an underground cavern), the Song of the Roses contorted, no longer a song but a clamor of discordant, off-key _noises_. What were they crying out? What were they moaning? _Why_ were they moaning? 

And yet, perhaps fueled by his notorious determination and the spell of the Dark Tower, Roland continued on. 

His legs moved on their own. Roland noted how the noises that were once the Song of the Roses sharpened. The noises, as he approached the top, became more distinct. 

But still, Roland continued, sweating out his eternal damnation, not knowing that he would once again be forced to drink from that poisoned cup once again. How he sweated, how he cried. For what? _For what_? 

And as he lost full control of his own being -- and perhaps his own mind as well -- Roland approached the doors to the final level of the Tower, just aware that the Song of the Roses was no more than a bit of **GLAMMER**, that the song that he heard were _wavelengths_ distorted to cloak the screams of horror of Eddie, of Jake, of Susannah, of Susan, of Mordred, of Steven, of Pere Callahan, of Marten, and of countless others to turn back, to relinquish his quest, for they suffered so much. They suffered because of Roland. They suffered thousands of deaths, all because of _Roland_. 

But, as always, Roland heard those voices too late, and with clammy, trembling hands, he threw open the doors to the last floor of the Tower. 

The memory flooded him like a tidal wave and pierced his head like the awful red-hot needle-like clamor of todash chimes. Perhaps they were todash chimes of memory, of nineteen. Was this last door the ultimate manifestation of Black Thirteen? 

For as soon as Roland entered the room, he stared at the very symbol of his downfall. 

"No. No! Not again! NOOOO!" Roland would cry out, each and every time. 

But the Crimson King, locked out of his Dark Tower of yore, would laugh maniacally, as the Gunslinger was hurled back into another world, a world very similar to the In-Mid-End world of the one he had just barely conquered. 

And the King would wonder, amused, if the gunslinger truly thought he reached the Dark Tower of his dreams. He approached the image, the smell, the sound that all signified the Dark Tower. _Ah, gunslinger, you still had many wheels to conquer._

Roland of Gilead vastly underestimated the power of the Crimson King, le Roi Russe. His mind grew weak as the desire and fulfillment engulfed him. Roland of Gilead did not see through the intricately woven pattern that covered the mountain in the guise of the Dark Tower. 

And like a lost herder, Roland followed helplessly as the goat-legged monstrosities pulled him along by the shirt, pants, boot, chain, unaware of the cries of terror. 

Susannah was right to leave when she did. 

But for Roland, that brilliant moment of all-knowingness passed out of his mind like the flicker of a candle flame. 

And the burning image of the crimson eye quickly faded from his memory. 

All Roland knew was this: 

_The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed._

Ka is a wheel, may it do ya. 

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**Note**: Has anyone wondered if Stephen King based the Crimson King in any way in regards to the singer, King Crimson? 

Sorry about inaccurate quotes. I don't have the book in front of me at the moment. This is all from memory. Review please! 


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